


Where I Can't Follow

by Ayulsa (execharmonious)



Category: Loveless
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-18
Updated: 2010-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/execharmonious/pseuds/Ayulsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Seimei's death, Kio learns more about Soubi's world. Companion fic to The Magic Goes Away; this one comes first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where I Can't Follow

"...Not butterflies this time, then," says Kio, softly, not knowing if the words are a consolation or a poor attempt at humour.

Soubi doesn't turn around, his eyes fixated on the canvas in front of him; focused, no doubt, on pinning down every scrap of detail, before the memory leaves his mind forever. He doesn't usually, doesn't ever paint people. He knows, to make this exception, Soubi must truly be driven by need.

He's sure Soubi thinks it's beautiful, but the painting makes him wince. He wonders how he can command such precise strokes and yet not see the truth of what they capture: those eyes, as cold and dead as the man himself.

Reluctant to stare at that face, yet wanting to be near Soubi anyway, he plops himself down resignedly next to the artist.

"I could-- I could be him for you, if you wanted," he says, and before the words escape him he knows they're ridiculous. Knows he can't be Seimei, and he expects the other to slam him down with words like _no one else could be Seimei, no one else could conceive of the things he did_. Because it's true, or at least he hopes to God it's true, that there aren't two people out there in the world with the same fucked-up mind as Seimei's. (Not even _one_, now, and the world feels like a better place for that. No, he could never become that. Never bring it back to life.)

But what comes out of Soubi's mouth, dull flat tones almost lost in the chaos of Kio's own thoughts, is _you're not a sacrifice._

And Kio's mouth hangs open right then, while his mind catches up, because that wasn't what he'd thought he would say and it takes a minute to process, and because he knows it's true. So true it cuts to the bone, and he almost can't believe he had the audacity to say it.

He splutters for a moment, his throat trying to form words like _but I--!_ (_but I love you, but I'd do anything_), but they die on his lips. He can't see the tether of Soubi's bond, can't see, the way _they_ can, the cut edges of it trailing on the ground-- like a dog trailing its leash, he thinks, remembering some apocalypse movie he saw once with a dog like that running around the empty streets, barking for its dead master. (_Too fitting._ He recoils in disgust.) But he hears it in his voice every time he speaks, or at least he used to-- a ringing undercurrent, something grounding his every word, like he was only ever ninety percent there and the rest of him moored to some foreign shore, and one tug on that secret leash would instantly command his full attention.

Now, he hears the absence where it was, the lack of that metallic ring. Soubi's voice sounds dead without it.

_Dead._ When a sacrifice died, didn't their fighter die, too? Soubi's heart seems lost, but his body is alive enough-- unless this is a wraith, a ghost-Soubi, planted there by supernatural means. Or maybe that painting has sucked in his soul; for all the expression is cold, the face still seems more vibrant, more living, than the painter himself. Perhaps that's how the belief got started. _Too confusing...._ He doesn't understand any of this. And there's the rub, really.

_My world is a different place from yours,_ Soubi had always told him. And in this room, where two men sit and yet neither, to the other, is really present any more, he feels that truth more than he ever has. He doesn't know what to say to Soubi, doesn't know how to pick up the torn end of that tether and nurse its bleeding back to health; he doesn't, because he can't, because such things are beyond him, because Soubi's heart is now a puzzle-box and his dimensions are but two.

He cringes from the painting again, but this time with shame. Is this dead, static soul more alive to Soubi than he could ever be?

_Damn your world, Soubi,_ he thinks for a moment, his heart all aching with passion for the man; and then, because he would not make Soubi lesser, _no, damn mine._

\---

Soubi is sleeping. Or rather, he's twisting and writhing and mumbling incoherencies such that Kio doesn't really know whether he's asleep or awake; but he prefers to believe that Soubi is sleeping, because it means he hasn't completely cracked, isn't wilfully performing this masturbatory display there in front of him without shame.

Soubi's hands aren't touching, but he's hard, his eyes screwed tight like something torments him. It's obvious before he speaks what the image is, before the first broken sigh of _Seimei_ falls from cracked lips, a throat parched from sleep and longing.

Kio tries not to pay attention, wills himself to roll onto his side and ignore, ignore Soubi in this weakest of moments. More obscene than Soubi himself is this watching; he feels like he's taking advantage, inviting himself into a space that's not his own, while Soubi can't even say no. _Violation._ He's no better than Seimei. But he's drawn, fascinated, against his better instincts. Here is Soubi unguarded; here are all his secrets, laid bare on the surface where they've never been, and Kio wants to know, wants more than anything to become a part of that privileged space where he knows he doesn't belong.

And so he watches, compelled by Soubi, disgusted by himself.

Soubi's moans trail to whimpers as he thrusts against the air, his hands fists at his sides, clenched, needy, his teeth grinding with strain. If it weren't for those whimpers, those subdued sounds of swallowed frustration, he'd mistake the tension for building climax, but the sounds cast his actions in a different light. He steels his breathing, forcing his gasps to express themselves through protracted drags of air; that name is still on his lips, in whispers aborted before they can break into cries, not gasps of release but a mantra, chanted to stave off mortal needs.

He curls into a ball, eventually, whispering to his god as if it comforts. He's still twitching in his pants.

Kio watches him for a while longer, letting the scene sink in. Emotions compete in him: shock, heartache, and a dawning realisation that, thank his eternally curious nature, manages to eclipse the rest.

This, this is the Soubi he can never capture. This is the Soubi he can never have. A man who, even in his sleep, won't allow himself release; because that is not his master's will.

Even dead. Even dead, Seimei still holds this power over him. He almost begins to hate the man again, at that thought, but mostly he's just in awe.

He could never be that to anyone, he knows, never command that power. The thought should make him angry.

He's seen the secret Soubi, now, the Soubi who lives and feels beyond his meagre reach. The thought should make him angry.

But he's seen it, and strangely, right now that's enough. The secret Soubi is beautiful enough to drown out all other feelings; except, perhaps, just one, and that less resentment and more the wistful echo of a dream.

_Damn my world._


End file.
